Once I Was a Victor
by TearoToHero
Summary: Stitch Plyth finds her life catapulting in an all-too expected direction when her name is called by the eccentric Llanda Polfin at the District Eight Reaping. Raised on a diet of cold logic and brutal truths, the girl is no stranger to the idea of death. Catching someone's eye early on makes her the number one target in this year's Games. How far can logic help her?
1. Reaping Day

The sun's warming rays shone through the window of the room Stitch Plyth shared with her older sister, Loom, peppering the two with the faintest of kisses. It was such an odd day for the sun to be shining, neither of them expected to be woken that way. Usually on Reaping Day it would be the sobs of their mother echoeing through the house, the sounds of her mourning for the daughters she might lose terrible and heartwrenching.

"Stitch?" Loom's voice was soft and melodious as it always had been, pulling her sister into reluctant consciousness. "Stitch, I think we have to get up now."

"How long do I have left?" The girl asked, sitting up quickly. Loom had just turned nineteen so she would no longer be eligible for The Hunger Games. They were both glad because it would give their mother less to worry about, and if Stitch was chosen then they would no longer have the teary Reaping Days. Very little fear was left in the girls' hearts for they had both seen friends, people they loved beckoned to the Capitol to die.

As coldly logical girls neither of them actually saw being Reaped as a bad thing because so many pleasant little extras could come of it. Winning meant money and a house in Victors' Village; losing meant death and freedom from worrying any further. Their father wholeheartedly agreed; he was a very kind man when necessary, but there was no pretence amongst them that prevented his daughters from knowing exactly what he thought of the Games. They were a necessity, sometimes even a gift, the fact that one of his own kin might be sacrificed was just another fact of life. Inevitable, really.

"Only an hour," Loom said, helping Stitch to her feet. "You'll have to dress quickly, it takes a while to get there."

"I know, I know." The girl smiled uneasily, doing her best to hide the fear and apprehension that nobody wanted to see. "Relax, sweetpea. What am I wearing this time?"

Loom was unable to hide the proud grin which spread across her fine face. Clothes were her passion and she had been permitted by Father to create Stitch's clothes for the Reaping. As District Eight citizens, both of them were more than capable with a needle and thread, but actually being able to afford the fabric to make fine things was very rare indeed. Stitch suspected the gift must have been Father's way of congratulating Loom for living past her eighteenth year. "You'll see."

"I can't wait." Stitch rolled her eyes a little, but she too was smiling. Anything which could make them happy was a good thing. They had to keep that spark alive, especially if Stitch's name were to be called out by their ridiculous Capitol escort, Llanda Polfin. "Do we have bathwater today?"

Loom tapped her chin for a minute, then shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know, maybe. Ask Father."

The girl nodded, stepping past her sister with all the grace of a baby elephant. She stumbled by the door and would have fallen flat on her face were it not for the strong arms which caught her before she could taste the wood-flooring. "Oh, uh, thanks." Her cheeks flushed crimson, the colour highly visible beneath her snowy skin. With all the time she spent in the factories crafting Peacekeeper uniforms it was impossible to get a tan. Most of the people in Eight bore the same yellowy-pallor.

The man who had caught her set Stitch upright, a tight smile on his face. Father never really smiled, he didn't see the need to. Everything was black and white to him, nothing happy, nothing sad. Things simply were the way they were and everyone had to deal with them. However, on Reaping Day he did his best to look a little less cold than usual, though both the girls could see right through it. "Careful."

"I was just practicing pouncing," Stitch said with utmost conviction. "You got in the way, Father." Everything had to be very formal around him, that was how he liked it to be. Very few, very meaningful words and no pretence. "Is there any water today?"

He shook his head once. No. Of course not. There never seemed to be water for them on Reaping Day, probably because they all feared Mother might try to drown herself. She had attempted it once, some seven years ago when the boy who had once saved Loom from the Peacekeepers after she was caught stealing cloth had been Reaped. Father had stopped her though, but there had been no love in the gesture. He had simply emptied the tub and left her to wallow in sadness whilst he cared for his young daughters. She was far too sensitive to be exposed to those kinds of things, but unfortunately the Reaping was mandatory and Mother had a history of remaining healthy all-year round.

"Just think," Stitch began, folding her arms across her thin chest. "One more year and this is all over for us. Then we can just get on with our lives, right?"

Instead of answering her question, the tall man looked down at his daughter and uttered one simple command. "Don't have children."

"Loomy?" Stitch turned around, looking back into the room where her sister was carefully picking something out of their makeshift wardrobe. There were very few things in their room beside two worn matresses and a few pieces of broken, poorly-improvised furniture. "What just happened?"

"He's just distracted, don't pay any attention." Loom turned around, holding out a bundle of bluish cloth. It didn't look as expensive and fancy as the things the Capitol citizens wore, but the quality definitely surpassed what was ordinary for the Plyth household. "Here, close your eyes. I don't want you to see it properly until it's on."

Stitch wanted to reply with a snarky comment, she wanted to ask what difference it would make whether she saw it or not but she bit her tongue. They all had their ways of coping behind the logic and who was she to rip into her sister's? "Alright, then." Within a moment Stitch's murky blue eyes were hidden behind purplish lids as instructed. She tried her best not to move as Loom manouvred around her, pulling the fabric down over her skin. It was a little itchy on the inside which meant it probably hadn't been as expensive as Stitch had first thought, not that it mattered to her.

Loom, who thought of the whole 'Reaping Day' deal as one great big fashion show ignored the quiet squeaks and protests of Stitch as she began to pin and adjust the dress. It was no wonder she had seemed a little panicked at the realisation there was only an hour left, there was apparently so much work to be done to the outfit before Stitch was permitted to go.

"We have to go now!" Father shouted from his position beside the front door. "Lateness isn't tolerated."

"Well, I guess you'll have to do," Loom said, taking a step back to admire her work. "Take a look, but make it quick."

Stitch turned towards a dusty, cracked mirror which sat in the corner of their room, unimpressed by what she saw there. The dress was almost the exact same colour as her eyes, the match making them seem a little brighter against her deathly pallor. Though the girl didn't appreciate finery often, she had to admit to being a little impressed at her sister's work. Instead of drowning her awkwardly thin figure, the material seemed to emphasise it, working with her unkempt red snarls to make her look wild, maybe even deadly. If she were to be Reaped, Loom may have just given her a chance with the sponsors. It would be nothing compared to the more privileged districts, but when it came to the coal miners of Twelve, she'd surely be more appealing. "Thanks."

Loom nodded, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her towards their waiting father. Mother would be there already, distracted behind a crowd of friends and well-wishers who always did their best to divert her attention. "Just don't fall."

Stitch nodded, clumsiness would only be an unwelcome weakness for the career tributes to feast upon. The door was already open and people could be seen trundling along to get to the Reaping, though none of them looked enthusiastic. Siblings could be seen trying to distract each-other, telling stupid jokes or pulling funny faces. Anything to make them forget what was going to happen.

The Plyth trio, for their mother always seemed to be excluded, acted completely differently. They each had their own way of coping, yes, but it wasn't an outright display. Nerves and fear were well hidden, buried at the back of their minds, way behind the logical reasoning that had been drilled into their heads. The Reaping was good, out of it could only come good things. Whether you were chosen or not, it was all about surviving. If you didn't survive, Father said you weren't meant for the world. He believed everything had a purpose.

Lines had already formed between the ropes, children split up into the appropriate age group. No goodbyes were said as Stitch departed for the near-front to stand with the other seventeen year olds. A few friends smiled at her, but she could see straight through the fake muscle strain. Why they thought they had to put on a brave front, to try and reassure her was baffling. The views of her family were no secret within the district.

Stitch paid no attention whatsoever as the usual routine stretched on, not even sparing a moment to examine Llanda's latest fashion choice. She knew Loom would be staring, trying to get ideas and inspiration from the gaudy Capitol clothes. Woof, mentor for their district was lounging on a chair, gazing straight over the crowd. He didn't exactly look pleased to be there, but Stitch figured that was purely down to bad memories from his own Reaping, or maybe he had a relative somewhere amongst the masses of children. It wouldn't have been surprising, most everyone knew somebody who would be at risk.

So lost in thought and trying to determine a back-story for everything, Stitch didn't notice Llanda's hand dipping into the bowl, manicured hands grasping at a single slip of paper. She only snapped out of her trance when a girl to her right elbowed her in the ribs, sending her toppling sidewards. "Ouch! What was that for?"

"Stitch Plyth."

Six slips. Six slips out of the thousands within that bowl and it was her name which had been drawn. Stitch couldn't say she was surprised, and she didn't feel any sadness, either. The only thing she was aware of was that all eyes were on her and she had just fallen. She had just shown the entirety of Panem her weakness.

_Death becomes her._


	2. Synonymous With Doomed

One foot in front of the other. Strong, sure steps had to be taken to try and erase the memory of Stitch's stumble. She had to hold her head high and radiate confidence if she wanted to maintain even a scrap of Capitol confidence. Nobody would sponsor her if she messed up even before it started, she knew that much from watching previous years. A while back one of Nine's tributes had fallen out of their chariot. He had been the first to die.

"Come on, come on. Show all of Panem that pretty little face," Llanda urged, struggling to blink under the weight of her ridiculous false lashes. Her right hand was already poised above the bowl containing the boys' names, just waiting to pluck out the next victim.

Stitch kept her expression carefully distant as she took her place upon the stage. After a discussion five years ago, she, her father and Loom had come up with their strategy should either of the girls be chosen. She intended to be elusive and indifferent, not to let the other tributes find anything out which might give them the upper hand. The only thing she was supposed to make them think was that she was confident, that she had some kind of a trick up her sleeve.

"And now for the boys," Llanda called, her amber eyes scanning the crowd with little real interest. The grin on her face was proof enough that she didn't care whose name she was about to call, all that mattered to her was image. Not so different from the Games themselves, really. "Pine Clark!"

Somewhere in the middle of the boys' lines a scuffle broke out. Judging by the distance from the stage, Stitch guessed the culprits to be around fifteen years old. She'd never encountered Pine before, but gut instinct told her that the tall, brawny boy who was pinning down somebody much smaller was him. "Volunteer," he snarled, his hand closing around his victim's throat. "Volunteer!"

The Peacekeepers moved swiftly, pushing past the hundreds of relieved boys to get to the newest tribute. Fights like that didn't often occur in their district, though Stitch had heard of them a few times from her father. They were _never _shown in the recap of the Reaping. Sometimes the tributes got so desperate they tried to force another to take their place in the Games, but it ended the same way every time. Pine was taken away by two of the Peacekeepers, escorted far out of the view of any Capitol camera to meet his demise. Only because she was listening for it did Stitch hear the faintest echoes of gunfire.

Right on cue Llanda began to speak again. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said in a voice coated with sugar, "I must have read that wrong." She wasn't fooling anybody, of course, but not one single person in that crowd dare speak against her. If they did, the consequences would be exactly the same as they had been for Pine. The rules had them all tongue tied. "Elwin Maelor!" The footage from Stitch's assent to the stage to Elwin's name being called would all be destroyed later on and nobody would mention Pine Clark again.

Elwin didn't hesitate to mount the stage, nor did he attempt to hide the grin which stretched across his face. He was broad shouldered boy who worked within the same factory as Stitch, and from what she knew of him he was completely merciless. At the age of eighteen it was his last eligible year for the Hunger Games and he didn't look at all bothered by the fact his name had just been drawn for the death penalty. In fact he looked _ready, _like he wanted to be there.

Before Llanda could tell them to, both Stitch and Elwin linked hands and faced the crowd. Elwin held the girl's hand in a crushing grip, squeezing her fingers together until the tips began to lose their feeling. Stitch had the distinct feeling that he was doing it on purpose, he was challenging her. _'No chance of a district alliance,' _she thought, though she wasn't exactly disappointed. From watching past years, Stitch and her father decided that allies might not always be the best thing. He thought that she'd be better going solo and she knew it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Llanda called with great enthusiasm, "May I present to you the newest tributes in the Fifty-eighth annual Hunger Games!"

No cheering could be heard and it wasn't just because the crowd were still in shock over Pine's actions. Stitch struggled to meet the piercing gaze of her father, but once she did she felt her heart freeze over. There was no sympathy in his eyes, nor was there any worry. All she could read was emptiness and indifference. She knew they had said before hand that the Games would be good for them no matter what happened, but Stitch was still only a child. She just wanted to see a little care in the eyes of her sire, something to show that he felt for her.

Loom was crying hysterically, clinging to their tall, rake-thin mother. Both of them looked absolutely devastated, but that did nothing to settle Stitch's sadness. If anything, she wanted to see them the other way around. She wanted to see her dear mother being strong and comforting whilst her father shed loving tears. Before the girl could try and find any of her friends amongst the silent onlookers she was escorted away from the public eye.

Elwin walked beside Stitch as Llanda babbled on nonsensically about the days leading up to the Games. They were surrounded by Peacekeepers, so there was little they would actually be allowed to do. Stitch settled for simply observing her fellow tribute. He appeared menacing with his short-cut dark hair and strong build, but the girl tried not to let that get to her. There would be bigger and stronger opponents in the arena for sure, all she had to do was figure them out and go about their demise the logical way. "What kind of a name is Stitch?" Elwin asked in a deeply mocking tone.

"We're in District Eight. We sew. Get used to it." She vowed to keep her replies short and simple until she knew more about her district partner. Once Stitch managed to figure things out she would begin to try and play with his mind, to light the fuse which would catalyse his downfall.

"That's no excu-"

All of a sudden they were separated, forced into separate rooms where they would be able to share some last words with their loved ones. Settling herself in one of the hard-backed wooden chairs, Stitch stared solidly at the door, waiting for it to open. Emotion began to overwhelm her as the handle shuddered. Suddenly she didn't know what to say, what to do, _anything. _The girl felt lost. Helpless. Alone.

"Stitch!" The collective cry of her mother and Loom danced about her ears like the sweetest symphony she'd ever hear. Her blue eyes snapped up, trailing along their faces as they approached. That same sinking feeling, the disappointment she had felt earlier was back again. Her father hadn't come. He hadn't even wanted to say goodbye.

"Hey," she said weakly, allowing them to envelop her in a joint embrace. Tears splashed onto her shoulders like raindrops from her devastated mother's eyes. "This is a good thing, remember? Think of the money you'll save." It really was a lame statement, but that was what Father had said and Father's word was law. He knew what to do, all Stitch had to do was trust his orders and use her brain.

"Oh, Stitch," Loom began, pulling back and regarding her sister with a frightfully grim expression. "You will be careful, won't you? You'll try to think before you do anything? Rushing won't get you anywhere, you know. It's all about keeping calm and finding their weakness. You can do this, I know you can!"

Hollow words. That was all they were. Loom was just trying to be comforting, strong and assuring for their fragile mother. "It's up to you now," Stitch murmured, gently pushing her mother away. "You have to take care of everything, okay? Just... Just make sure you stay safe."

Loom looped her arm around Mother's waist, pulling her towards the door which had just been forced open. The tears were gone from her face and suddenly Stitch was incredibly glad. Were it not for the harsh truths they had been brought up upon, things would have been much worse. Both girls knew that Loom would be able to cope without her sister, and that Father would to. All they had to do was carry on with heads held high and rely on their warped logic.

Once the room was empty again, the tiny tribute tried desperately to think. She had to remember exactly what Father had said, the best angle for her to appear from. There was no doubt in her mind that he knew best, regardless of the fact that he, himself, had never come face to face with the Hunger Games. Beauty was a waste of time, Stitch knew she didn't have that. Her gawky nose and too big eyes made her a frightful sight indeed when coupled with her sunken cheeks. She couldn't play the seductress if she didn't look the part. Her frame was too small to realistically back up any claim of being a strong, fearsome tribute who intended to do anything necessary to survive. All that she really had going for her was an ability to listen, to obey exactly what was being asked of her. If somebody she trusted told her something, the girl would believe it without a moment's doubt. Only problem with that one was that nobody in the arena would tell her to survive.

The door didn't open again. Her father hadn't shown up to deliver some secretive advice like she had begun to hope for. He had left her completely clueless in the hands of the Capitol's brutal realities. Stitch didn't utter a word of protest as a pair of Peacekeepers dragged her towards the train. She didn't look up when they passed crowds of people, some of whom shouted unintelligible things to her, nor did she respond in any way to the finery displayed aboard the train. The girl simply manoeuvred herself to sit in a chair and hold her head in her hands. She was a tribute, inevitable fodder for Snow's cannon. Doomed didn't quite cover it.


	3. The Tributes Arrive

Stitch hadn't said a single word to Llanda the whole time the two of them were waiting in what appeared to be some kind of dining car. Elwin had gone off to look around, or so he had told them, and Woof was nowhere to be seen. Llanda had expressed no desire to find the mentor, waving a hand when Elwin had asked prior to his 'adventure.'

Everything around them was Capitol-coated. Rich red napkins slept beneath spotless white plates upon a table of the finest mahogany. There was no doubt in Stitch's mind that one measly piece of cutlery probably cost more than anything she owned, but she wouldn't allow herself to get too bitter about something she could never change.

"Do speak, child," Llanda cooed in her silly accent. She in her bright colours and vivacious makeup fit right in with the decor. If she stood completely still in the middle of the table she would make a fine centrepiece. "Silence won't solve anything!" A childish giggle accompanied her cheery exclamation, the ridiculousness of it almost enough to make Stitch herself laugh.

"It might," she replied simply, folding her legs under herself. Stitch hadn't decided yet if she wanted to trust Llanda, something about the way her makeup ringed eyes criticised everything make the tribute uncomfortable. Of course, that was stupid. All Llanda was there to do was escort the tributes and try to make sure they didn't embarrass themselves. "I don't feel like talking."

"Why ever not? Aren't you excited?"

Stitch shrugged, beginning to pick at the fraying hem of her Reaping dress. The cheap material was practically falling apart in her hands, the last token of affection from her sister decaying away. Token! She had completely forgotten that she was allowed to take something of her district with her into the arena, and now it was too late. The girl took a deep, shuddering breath to quell the emotion which had risen in her chest, reminding herself that affection would only get in the way. If she gave herself something to pine after then it would only become another distraction in the end. "Is he ever going to show up?"

"Who, child?"

"Woof. I was just wondering where he's gotten to. Do you think Elwin found him?" A tiny frown crept across Stitch's face, she didn't want the two of them meeting in private, they might conspire against her. She didn't mind being mentored in front of her district partner, purely because she intended not to listen to a word of it. Father always knew best, that was the rule. She had to do what he had said, she had to think her way through everything with great caution.

"Maybe," Llanda chimed, lacing her manicured hands together in her lap. "I suspect they're already firm friends!"

"Mmm," Stitch mumbled, rising from her plush seat. "I think I'll go and find them." Before their escort could say anything else, the girl disappeared through the same door which Elwin had, listening for any sounds of life. As she trundled down the corridor, Stitch found herself distracted by a strange painting displayed in an exquisite golden frame, failing to notice when she walked right into someone.

"Careful," Woof said, his voice gruff and low. He wasn't exactly a big man, but he was no mouse. Stitch couldn't remember anything about him, mainly because she hadn't even been born when he had won his own Games. She straightened herself up as best she could, observing her mentor with a curious blue gaze. "Wouldn't want you getting hurt before you go in, would we?" A grin broke across his face, though Stitch didn't understand it.

"Of course not," she responded dryly, pushing wild locks away from her face. "Elwin isn't with you?"

"The boy?" Woof shook his head. "No, he disappeared that way." He pointed over his shoulder then shrugged. "Didn't have much to say for himself."

"He didn't ask for help," Stitch stated her observation aloud, furrowing her brows slightly. She didn't like the idea that someone other than herself might already have a plan. Not one bit. "That's strange."

"Is it?" Woof's voice was somewhat far away, as though he didn't much care for anything that was going on. "Then you want my advice?"

"Do you have any to give?"

"Make an impression," Woof said firmly, looking the girl up and down. "Make them forget about that little trip up of yours."

Stitch nodded, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Stating the obvious was extremely unimpressive to her, it made her wish to trust the man less than she already did. "I was planning on it."

"Express yourself, don't hide," Woof continued as though she hadn't said a single word, "Show them exactly what you can do and make them scared. The tributes from One and Two need to see that you can't be pushed around or you'll be first on their lists."

"But wouldn't it be better to hide?" She snorted, the sound echoing through the small corridor. "That way they'll forget about me and I'll have a chance of making it past the bloodbath."

"If you want to make it through that you have to fight." Wrong, Stitch thought. Father had said the exact opposite. He told her to run away and feign uselessness. "Get a weapon, maybe some supplies. Whatever you have to do, do it."

Stitch began to pick at the fraying hem of her sister's creation, all interest in Woof's words gone. She found it strange, really, how the fear which she had expected hadn't come yet. All that she could really feel was a deep disappointment in her father, her rock. He hadn't even shown up to say goodbye and she hated him for it.

"-I think that you should try and find one where you can hide," Woof said, though his earlier words had gone completely over Stitch's head. She didn't understand what he was saying and tried not to let it show on her face. The girl didn't want to be outright rude, she just knew that no advice he gave would stick. There was only one person she ever obeyed. "Ever seen a strawberry?" A pleasant smile crept onto Woof's face and something distant crossed his eyes. "They're red, you know? Very red."

An awkward silence followed his words as the ageing man fell into what Stitch could only describe as a walking dream. He began to make slow, strange movements towards her, prompting the girl to evacuate the area. Llanda was exactly where she had been left, examining her long nails with a skeptical eye. Stitch took a seat in the same chair as before, hugging her knees to her chest. "Elwin wasn't with Woof," she commented.

"He wasn't?" Llanda smiled. "I don't blame him. Isn't this all fantastic? I'd want to look around if I were you!"

"Yeah, it's different."

"Did you find Woof?"

Stitch nodded mutely, shifting her gaze from her colourful escort to one of the train's windows. They were moving so quickly that she didn't have time to pick out anything particular. There were stretches of rich greens and browns she assumed to be forests, splashes of colours that might be the flowers she saw on a very rare occasion. Nothing which held her interest. Loom would have liked it, she always wanted to travel. Stitch remembered once when they were a little younger and Loom had shared her dream of living and working in the Capitol. She hadn't really understood why at the time, but it was starting to become a little clearer. Loom wanted to escape, she wanted what the beautiful, rich people who graced their screens had.

There was very little conversation for the rest of the train journey, and neither Woof nor Elwin showed their faces when Stitch was around. There was too much time for her to think, to remember the things she had been taught and the things she would miss. Stitch wanted the coming days to pass as quickly as possible so that she might get into the arena and try to make Father proud. The Hunger Games would be her biggest test of worth yet. "We're really here?" She looked up as Elwin reappeared, heading towards the doors with a swift stride.

"Yes," Llanda squealed excitedly. Watching her clap her hands together in pure joy reminded Stitch of a time long ago when she had been ecstatic to hear she was finally old enough to work. At the time, the girl wanted to grow up and be like her working father more than anything else. "Ooh! Soon you'll meet your stylists! I bet you can't wait!"

"Of course we can't," Elwin drawled in a voice which dripped with sarcasm. "We'll get to look just like you soon, right?"

"Uh-huh!" Llanda really was very childish, and extremely naive if she didn't notice Elwin's mockery. The woman staggered to her feet in a pair of heels so high it was a wonder her head didn't poke through the roof of the train. "Smile for the crowds, they'll love you!"

"Come on, Titch," Elwin called, gesturing to the open doors. Flashes could be seen already, the cameras waiting to capture every little moment of their delivery to the slaughterhouse. "Capitol's waiting."

"It's Stitch," she corrected absently, following the boy as he descended upon the crowded chaos. Hundreds of citizens screamed and whooped. It didn't matter to them that the tributes they were welcoming would likely be the first to disappear, they simply wanted something to brighten up their already crayon-colourful lives.

Stitch tried her best to keep a blank expression, completely ignoring Woof's advice to make an impression. As they followed Llanda to an obnoxiously large building, Stitch remained aloft whilst Elwin called things at the Capitol's people. It didn't sound like he was playing for friends, not with the way he insulted hair and clothes. Instead he seemed to be trying a harsh, brutal approach. At least it was one way of getting recognition.

"Come on, come on!" Llanda looked scandalised at some of the things Elwin was saying. She looped her hand around his lower arm and pulled him along as she tottered full-speed into the building. "We're already a little late and there's so much to do. Make sure you co-operate with your stylists, they _are _the best."

The best? Stitch scoffed quietly. Even she, who was completely indifferent to the fashion choices and the image-based aspects of the Games had to admit that the stylists were awful. District Eight, being known for making textiles, always seemed to draw the short straw for the tribute parade outfits. Yes, the lower districts were even worse than theirs more often than not, but that made no difference to Stitch. Whether she liked it or not, she always felt a pang of jealousy when she saw the rich, exquisitely made costumes for One and Two. Sometimes, though it was very rare, she even felt the coal-miner outfits which the tributes from Twelve had to wear were better than the needles and patchwork messes those from Eight ended up with. "Where do we wai-"

She was cut off by a pink-tinged woman taking her hand and leading her to a seperate area where two others were waiting. As she was stripped out of her sister's dress, the girl made an attempt to observe the prep team as best she could. They were all women as far as she could tell. Though knowing some of the Capitol's fashions she could easily have been wrong.

The one with the pink skin looked like she belonged to some far off planet. Her eyes were coloured a confusing mixture of purple and grey, her pupils as white as the Peacekeeper's clothes. She had pounds of gold makeup coating her mouth and eyelids, the colour matching her pointed nails and revealing dress.

Another of them was tall and rake thin, her hair coloured to match autumn leaves. It fell to her waist in tight ringlets and several slivers of what looked like gold had been woven into it. Her eyes as they observed the tribute were a dark yellow which blended in with her golden skin. She began to work long fingers through the girl's wild hair.

The last of them was a slightly more normal looking woman. The only feature which truly distinguished her was the mouth which had been altered to resemble that of a cat's. Stitch felt uncomfortable as the modified face neared her own to begin plucking at her bushy eyebrows. She spared no feelings at all as she worked, brows furrowed in avid concentration as she tugged at the tiny coppery strands.

"What do we do with this?" The golden woman asked, pulling on a lock of Stitch's wild hair. She had the same humorous accent as everyone around her did, but there was a husky edge to the way she spoke which made the girl wonder if she had, in fact, misjudged her gender. "Cut it off?"

"No, Maellorn. Use that serum on it."

Maellorn began to work a cold substance over Stitch's scalp, her sharp nails occassionally raking at the skin there. "Are you sure, Yiva? This one might look better without it."

"Perfectly," Yiva, the pink woman, chirped and poked at Stitch's hands. "These nails might do with replacing though."

"Replacing?" Stitch piped up, struggling against the woman who had moved on to scouring her upper lip for any hairs she could remove. "You can't replace pieces of me." After a moment's pause, she added "Can you?"

The three of them looked a little shocked and embarrassed, as though they didn't wish for her to talk to them. "We could," Yiva "But we won't. Not yet." A long while passed by before any of them spoke again, and when they did the words weren't something Stitch wanted to hear. "This one's hopeless. We'll have to remake it."


	4. Spool or Tool?

Remaking, as it turns out, was not a pleasant experience. Stitch spent well over an hour being groomed, poked, prodded and perfected by the three strange women. Very few words were exchanged amongst them, for it seemed the size of the task at hand was enough to completely throw them. The girl herself hadn't thought she was so repulsive, maybe a little on the plain side, but nothing so bad it required intensive work. Apparently she had thought wrong.

Instead of allowing her to see herself, Yiva grabbed her arm and tugged her rather harshly into a different, smaller room. There was nothing in the room, not even a chair. Stitch had the feeling of being suspended in the limbo from her mother's childhood stories. Her skin tingled all over every time she moved, it felt as though someone was constantly stabbing her with miniscule pins and the girl didn't like it at all. Not one complaint passed through her lips, not even when she found herself abandoned by the peculiar pink Yiva.

"Hello?" Stitch called after a moment, wondering what she was supposed to do. "Is anybody there?" In the ceiling, barely noticeable amongst the intricate patterns, sat a camera. She came to the conclusion that even when it appeared otherwise, she would never truly be alone anymore. If that thought was supposed to be comforting to the tributes, if they were supposed to be appretiative of the fact that their last moments would be caught and broadcast to the world, obviously no-one in the Capitol had really thought things through.

"Ugh." Somebody sighed and stepped through a panel in the wall which Stitch hadn't even noticed. "Is this really what they give me to work with?"

"Am I that bad?" Stitch looked towards the speaker, unable to discern much other than the fact it was a tall male. He was cloaked in what appeared to be moving shadows so nothing about him seemed entirely real to the tiny tribute. "They did 'remake' me, you know?"

"Honey, you don't even know what that word means."

"Yes, I do," Stitch protested, sucking in her bottom lip. "It means an hour of pain and torture, right? Isn't it part of the Games?"

The man chuckled and took a step towards her. Behind him, previously unnoticed by the girl, stood a tiny woman with a large box balanced across her arms. Stitch's costume. It had to be. "Sadly, no. Though it would make for an interesting arena. Just imagine; a giant salon for twenty-four stylish tributes to elimate each other in such beautiful ways!" Up close, he appeared to be around thirty, his tanned face striped with purposefully picked blacks and purples.

Stitch blinked in shock, resisting the urge to move away from him. The man who she guessed to be her stylist was certainly the most frightening thing she had seen so far. "Um, that'd be nice?"

He laughed again before setting to work, plucking a thick coil of rope from the box which had been set at his feet. "Hold your arms above your head and don't move," he instructed firmly, beginning to wind the stuff around her once she had complied. "You're going to look fabulous!"

"What is it supposed to be?" Stitch began to chew the inside of her cheek out of nerves. "They usually turn us into rag-dolls, don't they?" She didn't see where he was going with the rope as it started to restrict her breathing. It felt repulsive against her naked flesh, but Stitch had already promised herself that she wouldn't protest, no matter what it was. As long as she didn't fall everything would be fine. She could cope with whatever they put her in.

"Guess!" His Capitol accent made the excitement behind those words all the more evident.

"A needle?" Stitch had seen that one before, a few years back. The tributes had been coated in a rigic fabric and then painted silver. That year both had been killed during the bloodbath, they never even stood a chance.

He snorted and looked up, apparently offended. "Do you really think we'd make _that _mistake again?"

"Someone did tell me once that history likes to repeat itself," Stitch said. After realising how cocky she sounded, the girl tried to divert the conversatio with a swift, polite question. "What can I call you?"

"Bae. Just Bae." He was tugging the rope around her waist now, pulling it too tight for her comfort. "Skinny one, aren't you? I bet you wouldn't know what to do with the food if you had it."

Stitch frowned. That comment sounded strangely dangerous to her. She had seen the way Peacekeepers acted when complaints were made about living conditions from the people who actually had to cope with them. The girl couldn't imagine the reaction they would have to Bae's casual insult. "I have a fast metabolism." She smiled slightly, proud that the word had stuck in her head after so many years of barely attending the school. Lessons weren't exactly compulsory to families like hers who had to work so hard to keep themselves alive. When things used to be at their worst, Stitch and Loom had to take it in turns going to school whilst the other slaved away.

"Of course." Bae rolled his dark eyes, kneeling down in a move which made Stitch incredibly uncomfortable. She'd never been shy, not really, but that didn't mean she wanted a stranger to examine everything she had. At least it didn't seem as though she would be forced to partake in the parade completely naked. Humiliation like that was usually reserved for the 'handsome' tributes of the higher districts. Sometimes showing a little skin could be the difference between life and death for cerain competitors.

After a while longer and several exasperated sighs on the behalf of Bae, Stitch was permitted to sit in another completely different room. There was no mystery about what would be happening next, expecially not seeing as she found herself in front of a mirror and a pile of products she had never even seen before. Makeup in District Eight was a rare thing indeed, and her mother hadn't ever been able to afford any such luxuries.

Layer by layer, Stitch was completely transformed. Her face felt heavy with all the creams and cosmetics, but she tried to remember that the stylists were doing their best. Styling a victor was the best way for any of them to get true recognition, and possibly a promotion to a higher district. Much like Llanda, Bae would do whatever he could to move up in the world and that meant trying to keep Stitch alive and 'beautiful.'

"Are you ready to see it?" Bae asked, unable to contain himself. A grin stretched his face so far that Stitch thought it was a wonder his skin hadn't split yet. "They are going to _love _it! My best work yet!" Without waiting for a reaction, he stood the girl up and turned her around so that she could see herself in the floor-length mirror which dominated the whole back wall. "What do you think?"

If there was one thing she couldn't do just then, it was think. The second her eyes locked with the murky, blue ringed ones in the mirror, Stitch froze. Her face had been made even paler by some kind of powder, her lips, eyes and cheeks coloured a bright blue. The makeup wasn't the worst of it, not by a long shot. Instead of the usual rags, Stitch found herself dressed only in blue rope. It was wound so tightly around her that she appeared to have an actual figure, and then some. Her modesty was only barely covered by it, though she understood that decision. Any longer and she wouldn't have been able to walk without tripping over. Around her arms were countless blue bracelets, and the same was true for her ankles. However, she wore no shoes, but they wouldn't have been visible in the chariot, anyway. "What. Have. You. Done?!"

"Do you like it?" Bae smiled, a dreamy look reaching his dark eyes. "I had a chat with your mentor the other day, he was positively jumping for joy! A spool of thread, how ingenious! The Capitol haven't seen this before, I assure you."

"I look awful!" Stitch managed to force the words out without spitting or snarling, much to her surprise. It wasn't vanity that was making her mad, more the fact that looking stupid now could lose her any sponsor attention she might still have maintained.

"Don't be silly. Now, come on," Bae chimed, grabbing her arm and pulling her fast alongside him. "We're running late as it is. Wouldn't want to miss your chariot now, would we?" He tutted as a set of doors were opened for them, allowing the two of them to pass into a room where nervous tributes were waiting.

None of their costumes stood out to Stitch in her angry haze. In fact, the only two people she noticed were Elwin and the girl from Twelve. The latter purely because of the look of fear upon her face. Twelve were apparently coal miners again, smeared with ash and clutching fake picks in their thin hands. Both from Twelve, Stitch had been informed, were only thirteen years old. The youngest sum of ages within a district that there had ever been. The Careers would certainly have fun at the bloodbath.

Elwin was, in every way, as badly dressed as Stitch. His rope coiled only around his waist and groin, leaving his muscular chest bared for all to see. There was a small smirk on his face as Stitch approached, though she wasn't sure if he was smirking at her, or trying to include her in his mockery of the costumes. "Don't trip this time."

"I won't," Stitch replied curtly, inclining her head. "Though, really, you'd think me making a fool of myself would do you a favour."

"How so?"

"It'd get us attention," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. "Everyone would be looking."

"The wrong kind of attention," Elwin drawled, making a face as Llanda appeared to direct them into the chariot. "You'd make us a laughing stock, Titch."

"There's no such thi-"

"Don't forget to smile!" Llanda beamed up at them once they had climbed in, clapping her hands together happily. "This is your moment, so make them love you like I do!"

"She loves us?" Elwin asked sarcastically just as the chariot began to move. "Ready, kid?"


	5. Unsettling News

Stitch squeezed her eyes shut after the first few camera flashes, her heart fluttering fast with fear. Elwin, who was standing beside her and waving openly, didn't seem to have any inhibitions when it came to teasing the Capitol crowd and they were loving it. "Come on, put some effort into it!" He jabbed her harshly in the side with his elbow, eliciting a quiet squeak. "They're going to think you've already died."

Blue eyes peeked through thickly painted lashes, scanning the crowd warily. Stitch found herself being hoisted up by her district partner, flaunted to the onlookers like some kind of trophy. "Put me down!" She screamed, though her voice was lost amongst the thousands of cheering citizens. "You'll drop me!" For the first time since the Reaping, Stitch felt herself slowly losing her grip on calm, surrendering to the panic which doomed a tribute once it surfaced.

Elwin simply laughed, his strong arms wrapped around the girl's waist. He was by no means gentle, gripping her as though he meant to rob her of her breath instead of help her gain attention. "Cool it, I'm saving your life."

"No you aren't," she hissed, baring her teeth in a feral, force smile. On one of the many screens she caught sight of herself, red hair breaking free of the binding serum in vibrant curls, face sharp and pointed. Stitch looked positively wild, menacing even. There was her angle, staring her right in the face. She took a deep breath and drowned out Elwin's words with a scream which dripped insanity, thrashing her arms about and kicking at her fellow tribute. His grip let loose and she wriggled free, pulling herself onto the side of the chariot and snarling at the observers, making sure to send several wild looks into the cameras.

"What the hell are you doing?" Elwin hissed beneath his breath. "You're supposed to make them like you, idiot!"

Stitch shook her head almost imperceptibly, raising her arms above her head. Were it not for the leg she had hooked firmly over the edge of the chariot, the girl would have fallen to the ground. Standing out in their white uniforms, Stitch could see the Peacekeepers watching her carefully for any signs of escape or further violence. She had to be careful not to get their attention because if she did her Games would be hell. Everyone knew the most troublesome tributes were the ones to fall victim to 'natural disasters.'

As the parade slowed to a stop, everyone quieted down and lifted their gaze to President Snow, awaiting his usual speech. Stitch drowned it out, making occasional twitches and strange noises. She knew how suspicious it would look for a girl who was seemingly normal at the Reaping to come to the Capitol and suddenly snap during the parade, but she figured it was worth a shot. Stitch had seen so many strategies in her years, things she could see right through but others believed blindly. There was something about the Games which clouded people's judgement of each other, particularly amongst the tributes.

"Stop it, whatever you're doing, Titch," Elwin muttered into her ear, spittle touching her skin in repulsive splashes. He had secured one of his large hands around the top of her arm now, burning her with his touch. Stitch refused to react, instead she went blank like a doll, blinking dopily at nothing in particular. Of course Elwin would know it was a game plan, as would anyone else who looked closely, but she had to hang to it for as long as she could. Father would approve of it, of his daughter using stupidity to cover her quick mind. "It's not going to get you anywhere."

Later that night, when Stitch, Elwin, Llanda and Woof were all settled around the table there was a tense silence blanketed around them. The stylists were supposed to join them, but hadn't stayed after carefully stripping the tributes of their costumes. There was an unease to Bae as he unwound Stitch's rope, he didn't even try to make conversation with her.

"What is it?" Stitch began, hating to be the one who had to instigate the conversation. "Why's everything suddenly so silent?"

"What were you thinking?" Woof's voice dripped with sarcasm and irritation as he glared at the tributes sitting side by side. "You were-"

"You where supposed to entertain them!" Llanda interjected, pouting like a child. "Not scare them and give the Gamemakers something to target! Silly children!"

"Silly?" Elwin growled. "Don't lump me in with her. I was _trying _to help. Unless you're so blind you couldn't see that. Whatever the brat does makes me look bad, too? She's giving District Eight a worse name than it already has."

"Calm down," Stitch said, frowning. "You're acting like I committed some crime. People have done worse than that." She pushed a lump of highly coloured food around her plate with a silver fork, scrunching up her nose at the stuff. No matter how good it tasted, the fact it looked as though someone had died it made the girl reluctant to put any in her mouth.

"First you showed yourself up at the Reaping," Llanda chastised, daintily dropping her napkin on the table. "Then you decide to pull a stunt like that."

"It wasn't a stunt. You're just over-reacting is all."

"You're lucky," she continued as though there had been no interruption. "The girl from Twelve made you look better by falling out of her chariot."

Stitch's mouth hung open for a second before she regained her calm. "She fell? Why didn't I notice? Surely the parade should have stopped."

"Obviously you were too interested in what you were doing," Woof piped up, leaning across the table. "To notice anything around you." He hadn't eaten much either, and there was a grim look plastered on his face. The man stood up and started to pace the shiny room, ignoring the avox who offered him a drink.

Silence again fell on the room and Stitch couldn't help but muse just how much people's attitudes changed where the Games were involved. One tiny thing could impact the lives of twenty-four children, and everyone around them, so greatly. "Can I go to bed now?" She asked quietly, desiring nothing more than to disappear into a room on her own to think things through.

"Follow me," Woof instructed, turning and stalking through one of the many doors in the room. Stitch followed quickly, ignoring a glare from Elwin. "We need to talk."

"Why?" Stitch took a seat on the edge of the bed without being asked, revelling in the softness of the red quilt against her fingers. The girl looked around the room, taking in nothing other than the fact there was one of the dreaded screens settled in the corner, waiting to broadcast Capitol propaganda and footage of the tributes. "I already have a plan."

"A stupid one, from the looks of things." Woof narrowed his eyes, the wrinkles around them making them appear more sunken in than they actually were. He stood beside the one large window in the room, gazing out into the night. "The protocol is that you discuss any ideas with me and I tell you just how terrible they are."

"I don't have to listen to you, do I?" Stitch mumbled, staring solidly at a spot on the floor. Despite the fact she still felt her actions had been perfectly justified and that her plan was pure gold, the girl couldn't help a pang of guilt and embarrassment spike through her heart. There shouldn't have been a problem with her deciding to take the reigns, she had figured her mentor would appreciate it. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

"Your name was mentioned," Woof said with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Bae heard whispered words between a few of the other stylists. They don't believe you, and I don't think the tributes do. From what he heard, somebody's named you as a target, promised a sponsor to the district who succeeds."

"I don't get it, isn't that a little extreme?" Stitch's heart sunk down until it nearly rolled to the floor in a useless heap. "What I did was no different from other tributes in other years, was it? There was that one girl who tried to make a run for it during the interviews, she was worse."

Woof shook his head slowly. "I'll talk to the other mentors, see what they know." He left without another word, no further explanation for the confused, yet irritated girl.

The promise, Stitch felt, would be an empty one indeed. She couldn't count on anybody to pull through for her, trust was a useless thing. The girl wouldn't have been surprised if the whole thing was a lie to scare her into conforming, it was entirely implausible for a tribute to be singled out even before the training scores had been given, a joke, really. Stitch curled up on the bed, resting her head comfortably atop the fat pillow, drifting into a dreamless sleep, unaware of the true culprit behind the bounty above her name.


	6. Training Saves Lives

"Alright, alright, listen up!" One of the more charismatic peacekeepers stepped forward, eyeing the group of tributes with notable excitement. The tutors all stood back, looking far too nervous to speak. "For the next few days you're all going to be stationed in here, trying your hardest to learn the skills you need to survive."

"You mean the little ones are gonna show us how to kill 'em," Po, the District One male tribute, hollered, earning a barrage of hooting laughs from his fellow Careers. He cracked his knuckles noisily, then moving one hand up to his neck and twisting it slightly until a soft 'click!' could be heard. "Let's just get on with it, I need a good stretch."

Throughout the gathering of tributes meagre affirmatives could be heard. None of them wanted to hang around uselessly, like cattle awaiting the trip to the slaughterhouse. The tutors began to separate them by walking through, each heading to a different station and awaiting the first tribute to teach. Some were instantly more popular than others, the weapons, mainly. Almost every single body moved towards the shining racks of weaponry, tiny hands grabbing at anything they could.

Stitch hung back, watching them for a moment. She had no interest in learning to fight, the girl already knew that she couldn't rely on physical skill to save her. With the hope of planting her 'insanity' in the minds of the other tributes, she began to twitch, performing an odd dance over to the camouflage station. Her fingers brushed one of the berries intended for making paint, bursting it in a splash of violent purple.

"What d'you think you're doing?" An all-too familiar voice hissed to her left, but Stitch refused to raise her head and acknowledge Elwin. She began to smear the colour over her naked forearm, no particular pattern emerging, but for a few delicate swirls.

"Aren't I pretty?" Stitch cooed, holding her arm above her head and waving it slightly. "I'm a chameleon!"

"Quit being stupid! Go learn something, Titch!" Elwin barked the order at her, dark gaze unflinching even when she returned to making a mess of her skin. "You're making me look bad! Don't you listen to a single word that's said to you?"

She did listen, maybe a little too much, in fact. Stitch had thought things through in the early hours of the morning, had pondered Woof's declaration until her head felt as though it would explode. A decision had been made, one she hoped would make her father proud. The act would continue, she would try her best to make them underestimate her, though there really wasn't much to underestimate, and hopefully fear her mental instability. If she could convince even one tribute to stay away for fear of being salivated on, her plan would be a success. Start small, be wise, see it through. "Which do you like more, the purple or the blue? I think the blue looks tasty."

When she received no reply, Stitch looked over to the edible plants section, expecting to meet Elwin's angry eyes. Instead she was greeted to a pleasant emptiness, the vague clattering of tribute weapons providing a violent white noise. Some unseen force made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, but Stitch ignored it in favour of looking at the 'pretty flowers' and making puzzling remarks towards the Capitol instructor. If anyone were to look at her, the idea was that Stitch's pretence would be seamless. Even if they didn't believe it, they'd have to look pretty hard to find the truth.

"If it's yellow, it's edible, yes?" Stitch chimed, prodding at one of the illustrations she vaguely recognised from the outskirts of District Eight. "Or wait, is it brown that I'm talking about?" Through the dim-witted facade, the girl's eager mind was doing its best to absorb any and all knowledge thrown her way.

"No, no, no-" The intructor's voice was cut off by the soft-spoken words of another tribute, the tiny male from District Five.

"How do you know if it's poison or not?" He shuffled nervously, clearly doing his best to avoid Stitch, who by this point was sitting cross-legged on the cold, hard ground. "Is there any trick to it?"

"If you don't know," the woman began, shaking her head firmly. "Don't eat it."

"But what if I was starving?"

"It's likely that you'll be dead before you get that far." Those words, so matter-of-fact struck a chord in Stitch's chest. What if she didn't even make it past the first day? What would Father say? He'd move on, of course. He'd forget all about her and devote his time to keeping his depressed wife alive, try his best to marry Loom to a hard working boy so that there would be another less mouth to feed. Stitch didn't want that to happen, but a small part of her acknowledged that death for her was inevitable, especially when surrounded by the bigger, stronger tributes. She didn't even know how to spot a poison.

"Eat one of the others," she chimed, flashing wonky teeth in what she hoped to be a frightening display. Cannibalism wasn't unheard of, but nor was it encouraged amongst the tributes. The Capitol had a funny way of allowing tributes to beat each other to death with barbaric tools, but they drew the line when it came to human consumption. Never mind the rumours Stitch had heard about the special soups ex-mothers made when times grew tough. "Tributes are tasty!" She didn't have to wait long for the boy to disappear, but disappointment settled in her stomach once the instructor dismissed her as a 'lost cause.'

The abundance of tributes practicing with weapons had somewhat dissipated, prompting Stitch herself to go and take a look. The weapons didn't appeal to her, but showing the others how useless she was would only add to her plan. A thousand ideas sparked in the girl's quick mind, urging her to perform various condemning displays of hopelessness. Maybe if she showed herself up enough, the others would think her so detached that she would simply kill herself and rid them of the bother. She could only hope that the mystery sponsor wouldn't catch on, or worse, increase the bounty he or she had effectively placed over Stitch's head.

Gazing at the impressive, yet deadly, collection, Stitch found herself spoilt for choice. She could try swinging a sword, maybe injure herself a little to show everybody just how unstable she was. There were no bows left, too many of the others had taken them and were trying their best to come within at least a metre of the target. What they didn't realise, but Stitch's cold calculation did, was that long range weapons were useless. If you didn't know how to use one, chances were you'd kill yourself before even grazing an opponent, and if you did far too much time would be spent tracking a suitable target. Against the Careers, one measly bow would be nothing; not when one of them could distract whilst the other literally became a back-stabber. It was that thought exactly which drew Stitch towards one of the long knives.

The way the handle fit so snugly in the palm of her hand made the girl shiver, almost dropping it in fright when somebody behind her began to speak. "The targets are over there," he drawled, a husky edge to his voice. Stitch didn't recognise the sound, but she refused to acknowledge it. Instead the girl hacked away a few strands of coppery hair, humming loudly and out of tune. "And you're a terrible actress."

"Mm. Knives are sharp. Knife. Knife. Rhymes with wife," she mumbled to herself, doing her best to go strangely cross-eyed. The girl was thinking all the while, trying to come up with the appropriate action. Of course, attacking the boy would get her attention, but from the wrong people. She had thought things through enough to realise that she had to stay below their radar enough to evade the Capitol's revenge for being a nuisance. "Wives are hard to come by!" The girl made an odd screeching noise before hurtling the weapon in the vague direction of the targets, as though the thing had bitten her.

Despite the underlying hope, Stitch hadn't miraculously developed any deadly throwing skills, nor had she gained the attention her inner plotter craved. The knife rebounded off the wall and clattered to the floor, only to be retrieved by an irritated instructor. "It was hot," she muttered to herself, adding a flick of her hand for emphasis.

"Four are watching," the mystery boy said, remaining just out of her peripheral vision. "The two from One, girl from Seven and Twelve boy. They don't know whether to believe you or not."

"And you?" She found herself asking the question, regardless of her mind's protests. "What do you think."

"I think you're dead already."


End file.
